


I'm Kind of a Record Nerd

by runthegamut (orphan_account)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-30
Updated: 2008-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:49:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/runthegamut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Record Store AU: Patrick owns a record store. Pete, Joe, Andy, and Ryan are his staff. Mikey is a regular. Gerard is Mikey's brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Kind of a Record Nerd

Patrick Stump doesn’t feel like a small business owner. He’s way too young for one, he thinks. Business owners are over forty and wear suits. He’s just twenty-four and comes to work in faded jeans and multicolored sneakers. He does own button-down shirts, but he wears them over faded, black t-shirts with the names of bands like “Deadguy” emblazoned across them. He contemplates how surreal this all is every morning as he opens his store, sipping on his mug of coffee as he flips the sign to open.

When he started working at the record store in high school, he figured it was the coolest job he could land at sixteen. His other friends worked at fast food restaurants, or washing dishes at nursing homes, or bagging groceries. Working at XYZ Records meant he got paid to talk to customers about music and got a 15% discount on the merchandise, not to mention first dibs on any of the rarer stuff that passed through.

Back then, the store was more CDs than records. Situated in a forgotten district of the downtown area, it didn’t get much foot traffic. The building was decrepit and there was an ever-present musty smell that sunk into the cotton polo shirts he wore to work back then.

Most of the customers then were either diehard collectors from the suburbs or college students who were desperate to get a hold of an out-of-print CD from some band they’d just discovered. The chain stores were more convenient and catered to the music-buying needs of most of the city. As a consequence, the store made just enough money to roll on.

Patrick had figured he’d work at the store for the last two years of high school and go off to college somewhere. When he ended up going to a local college, it didn’t make much sense to quit. He’d told the owner, John, that he’d probably need to cut way back on his hours, only work weekends, but he kept showing up at the store during weekdays to just hang out anyway. It made more sense to get paid while hanging out, so when John put him on the schedule one Tuesday night, Patrick didn’t say anything. Halfway through his first semester of college, Patrick was back to working five nights a week.

Patrick graduated in the spring of 2006 with a degree in music history and a minor in business, having unwittingly set himself up to… own a record store. One night, a few months before he’d graduate, John had looked up from the books and sighed, studying Patrick a moment.

“So, Stump. You’re gonna take this place of my hands or what?” The business was never very profitable and John had been talking increasingly about selling the store and moving to Florida.

Patrick hesitated a couple seconds before nodding. “If we can work out the financing so it won’t go belly-up in three months, yeah.” They did and the place was Patrick’s by July.

In the two years he’d owned the business, Patrick had managed to transform it. He phased out the CD inventory to clear more space for vinyl. He carried independent albums by local artists without a markup, letting the bands keep 100% of the profits. In return, his store got a lot of plugs at local shows.

In the past year, there had been a bit of a renaissance in the area. Old buildings were repaired and new structures went up. Independent, niche businesses began to fill up what was being referred to now as the East Village. Soon, loft condominiums followed and suddenly there was foot traffic finding its way into the store. Coupled with the hipsters and the diehards, profits at XYZ Records had more than doubled.

Patrick had a small, loyal staff on hand that was comprised of music geeks just like him. Joe was finishing up his college coursework, Andy was working on his post-graduate degree, and Pete played in a local band. Ryan was a recent hire, a high school student who Patrick brought on to cover the heavy traffic on the weekends.

Most weekdays the shop had a slow but steady stream of customers through its doors, but there was plenty of down time to stand around and debate the merits of Bob Dylan’s recent works or how Neil Young’s “Harvest” compared to “Harvest Moon.”

As it turned out, working at a record store was the coolest job he could land, period.

***

Mikey came in every Satuday, late afternoon. He’d been doing this for about six months now. Patrick was aware of the fact. He may or may not have planned his weeks around it.

The first time Mikey had come in, he’d bought a Stone Roses album. Patrick had been skimming over an inventory list on his laptop when the album had been set down gingerly on the counter. Patrick’s eyes went to the record sleeve before he registered the customer. He’d widened his eyes before looking up to find a guy around his age with disheveled hair and angular glasses.

Patrick tapped his finger on the record. “Listen to the first track and then come back tell me how it is there are only three lines in the whole song.” He hit the keys on the register to total the purchase and plucked a plastic sack out from under the counter to slide the album into. “It seems a lot fuller than that, I mean,” he elaborated.

Mikey had stared back at him, his eyes narrowed slightly and Patrick was momentarily worried that he’d offended the guy. Slowly pulling his wallet out, he handed the money for the purchase over. “There are four lines,” he said finally. “Well, five actually. He sings, ‘I’ve got to be adored’ instead of ‘I wanna be adored’ once.”

Patrick looked up and swayed his head from side to side, lips moving as he mentally sang the song to himself. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed with a nod after he’d run through it. “Five lines, sure. You already own the album?” He made change, holding it out for Mikey to take along with the album.

“I have it on tape,” Mikey explained as he accepted the items, shoving the money and wallet back into his pocket and threading his fingers through the handle of the bag. “I’ve looked for a copy on vinyl at every record store I’ve been in for, like, the last five years. You guys are the only ones who’ve had it.”

Patrick couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, well, we try to keep a variety of stuff in stock just in case—“

“Dude,” Joe interrupted from behind Mikey. “You keep a bunch of stuff in stock cuz you get a total boner from finding obscure records.” Joe sidled up to the counter and propped himself up on his forearms. Turning his head to Mikey, Joe smirked. “Patrick has a music geek degree and everything.”

“Shut up, Joe,” Patrick mumbled, half smiling as he crumbled up a scrap of paper and lobbed it in Joe’s direction. “Like you didn’t squeal when I found you the Metallica ‘Creeping Death’ picture disc import.”

“Touche,” Joe smirked before turning to Mikey. “If you need to find something hard to get, Patrick here’s your man.”

Mikey’s eyes moved back and forth between the two men as he watched the exchange. “Actually, there are a few albums I’ve been trying to track down. Can I leave my number with you in case you come across them?”

Patrick snatched a pen up as Mikey asked his question and scribbled out the names of the bands and the albums. He took down Mikey’s name and number, assuring him he’d try his best to get the records in the store. Mikey thanked Patrick and nodded to Joe before starting toward the door.

Before the door had closed behind Mikey, Patrick was online and searching through his bookmarks to find someone who’d have a copy of the records. He could see Joe grinning at him out of the corner of his eye. “Shut up,” Patrick mumbled again, not tearing his eyes away from the screen.

By Tuesday afternoon, all three albums Mikey had been searching for were en route to XYZ Records. Finding each gave Patrick a little thrill and he’d left a voicemail for Mikey letting him know they’d all be in the store by that weekend. He tried not to let his jitters show as he handed over the records to Mikey that Saturday, his staff exchanging knowing glances and snickers after Mikey left the store.

Mikey would place orders occasionally with Patrick promptly hunting down the albums. Mostly Mikey would browse the aisles, the hard soles of his shoes scuffing over the worn wooden floor. Patrick tried not to stare too hard when Mikey leaned in and slowly flipped through the albums, his jeans always a tad too tight and a tad too low on his hips for Patrick to stay focused on other tasks.

Patrick learned quickly that Mikey was into late 80s/early 90s alternative, particularly Britpop. It was an era where vinyl was sparse because everyone was listening to CDs or cassettes and vinyl had not yet made its resurgence. Whenever Patrick came across an album from that era, regardless of whether Mikey had mentioned it, Patrick would snatch up a copy and hold it in his office, casually mentioning it to Mikey the next time he was in the store. He sort of lived for the way Mikey’s eyes would light up at the mention of it, the way he’d turn the album over in his hands and slide the record from the sleeve to inspect it. Mikey bought every single one that Patrick had found for him, even though he’d never asked for them.

Andy would raise an eyebrow and give Patrick a sly grin when he came across one of the albums in a delivery, but he said nothing. Joe stole one of the section dividers previously devoted to ‘Boyz II Men’ and fashioned a piece of pink construction paper over it to write “Mikey Way” instead, sticking it in Patrick’s filing cabinet as a joke. Without discussion, the staff began storing the ‘special’ orders there.

After about four months of Mikey’s Saturday visits, sticky notes began showing up on the records in Patrick’s office. “Patrick + Mikey = Truelove4evah” one read, scrawled out in Pete’s handwriting. “Patrick ♥s Mikey more than Prince records” read another. Sometimes there were stick figures of Patrick (made obvious by the hats and glasses) holding records named “Stump Love” and the like. When gathering up the records to show Mikey, Patrick would hastily tug the notes off, his cheeks reddening slightly as he crumpled them up and dropped them in the trash.

On a typical Saturday, Patrick got to the shop around 9:30. It gave him a half hour of peace and quiet before anyone else arrived.

The store was somewhat of a sanctuary for Patrick and he had his rituals. Carefully straightening the albums, he’d flip through the stacks to find one out of place. He would sweep the floors, take down old show fliers. The staff did this stuff, but Patrick liked to do it himself, too.

Two of the guys were usually scheduled to open the store with him at 10. It allowed Patrick a couple hours alone in his office doing record keeping while they attended to the customers. Patrick had thought initially that it would be weird to be the boss of guys who were essentially his peers, but it really wasn’t. Of course, it probably wasn’t the typical employer-employee relationship either; most employees probably didn’t call their boss a dickhead on a regular basis.

Patrick would look up as the banter at the front of store heated up, Joe and Pete, for example, bickering over which Smiths album to play and Patrick would just grin before returning to his work. They were a pain in the ass sometimes, but they loved the store as much as Patrick did, which in turn made Patrick love them. He couldn’t imagine a staff better suited to work there but given that no one seemed too interested in leaving, it wasn’t really a concern for him.

Around noon there’d be an informal powwow about where to get lunch from. They ordered in a lot of Chinese and Indian food because most of the staff avoided meat and those cuisines afforded them the most options. On occasion, someone ran up the block to the hippie caffe that offered a few peculiar vegan menu items. On birthdays, Patrick bought the meal and Andy’s roommate, Matt, made a vegan cake.

They huddled together in Patrick’s office, consuming their food. If anyone was in the store when the food arrived, they’d take turns waiting on them, darting from the floor to down a few bites before casually strolling back to the counter. The eating itself never took that long, but the conversation that accompanied it seemed to extend lunch the full hour.

By one o’clock, Patrick started to watch the clock. Having finished his paperwork, he’d prowl the floor, helping customers locate albums, visiting with the regulars about live shows and new discoveries. His eyes would dart to the clock at the back of the store every few minutes, his tension rising as the hour progressed.

Mikey showed up between two and three. The days it was closer to three were the worst, Patrick’s chest gradually tightening until he couldn’t even concentrate on even the light banter his employees would throw his way.

This day it was closer to two when Mikey entered. The bells on the front door chimed and Patrick glanced over for the hundredth time that day to see Mikey pushing though the door, his head down as he brushed past the other customers. Patrick did a quick double take, his stomach tightening as the adrenaline hit him. He hung back, as usual, trying not to appear overeager to wait on Mikey, but his staff was suddenly missing, Joe mumbling something about calling back a customer before heading to Patrick’s office and Andy ducking away to wait on others.

Patrick stood next to the front counter, trying not to look as awkward as he felt. Mikey lifted his head and glanced around, adjusting to the dimmer light inside. As his eyes passed over Patrick’s face, he stopped and smiled, heading over to the counter immediately.

“Hey,” Patrick greeted him, shoving his hands deep in his pockets so he didn’t have to think about what to do with them. “Need some records?” Patrick cringed inwardly.

Mikey laughed though, and Patrick relaxed slightly. “Actually, I need a particular record, but I don’t know what it is,” he replied, catching his lower lip between his teeth for a moment and Patrick was aware his eyes lingered on Mikey’s mouth a second before he forced them back up.

“Oh? You know any of the names of the songs or any details about the band? Sing part of one of the songs for me, I’ll see if I can figure it out.” He liked a challenge and even if he couldn’t figure it out on his own, with Joe or Andy’s help he’d more than likely get it.

“No, no. It’s not that I don’t know the name of the album. I don’t know what I want.” Mikey blinked his eyes hard behind his glasses as he looked to the side, over to the rows of vinyl. “It’s not for me. It’s for my brother. I wanted to get him a record for his birthday.”

“Oh!” Patrick exclaimed, nodding his head in understanding. “Yeah, okay. We can figure something out. What kind of music does he listen to?”

Mikey returned his focus back to Patrick and gave a slight shrug. “Well, he likes some of the stuff I’ve introduced him to but, like, he listens to really over-the-top stuff? Like, theatrical stuff, I guess. David Bowie and Queen. And, um, The Misfits, of course—“

“Of course,” Patrick nodded again.

“—and, like, Iron Maiden.” Mikey glanced around the store at the customers milling about. “I guess I wanted something with like really cool cover art. He’s kind of into art stuff.”

Patrick took a deep breath and tried to run through artists that fell within the range of music Mikey had described, but that also had interesting cover art. “Okay, let me see what I can do,” he said, sounding a little uneasy as he headed over to a row of records, Mikey on his heels.

Patrick flipped through some albums, grimacing slightly. “Oh, hey,” he said as he remembered. “How about…” He led Mikey over to the “R”s and flipped through Rolling Stones records. “Okay, Stones. Classic rock, right? Here’s the [original cover for Sticky Fingers](http://sleevage.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/rstones_stickyf1.jpg). The one that every knows?”

Mikey raised his eyebrows as he studied the cover art on the record Patrick held up. “Okay,” Mikey said slowly.

“Okay. Andy Warhol came up with the idea for it and, see, the zipper goes down. Well. There’s a different cover that they released in, like, Spain? Because apparently seeing some guy’s… um…” Patrick cleared his throat and slid the record back into the stacks. “Well, they didn’t like that. So, the Stones put out this instead.”

Patrick pulled out [a record](http://sleevage.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/08/stickyfingers_spain_500.jpg) covered in thick plastic and put it in Mikey’s hands. Mikey stared down at it a moment before looking up at Patrick. “That’s disgusting,” he replied. Patrick frowned and tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder slightly. He was about to speak when Mikey cut him off. “I’ll take it.”

“Cool,” Patrick grinned, turning to walk back to the counter when Mikey piped up from behind him.

“Um,” he said tentatively and Patrick paused and turned, eyebrows raised. “I’ll get the one with the original art too.”

“Oh, sure,” Patrick answered, striding back to the Rolling Stones section. Mikey had moved in front of it and was flipping through the records to find the original cover. “I’ve got it,” Patrick said casually, placing his hand at the small of Mikey’s back as he peered around his shoulder, reaching around to grab the sleeve.

Mikey stilled with his hands poised above the albums as he turned his head to look at Patrick, who could feel Mikey’s warm breath against his ear. Patrick’s cheeks flushed and he tried not to think about what he was doing, how the small of Mikey’s back was beginning to curve out slightly to form the top of his ass where his pinky finger rested.

“Here,” Patrick announced as he plucked the album out of the grouping, his voice gravelly as he pulled away from Mikey a few steps. “Here, I’ve got it.” He turned on his heel and stalked back to the counter, his eyes closing as he silently cursed himself out for being an idiot.

Mikey followed Patrick and set the record on the counter, watching Patrick carefully as he punched the register’s keys, flustered.

“Hope your brother likes it,” Patrick mumbled, uncomfortable at the silence between them.

“I’m sure he will,” Mikey replied and handed over the money for the purchase. He paused a moment after Patrick handed him the bag with the albums, still looking at Patrick.

Patrick studied the floor, nudging the trash can to the side with the instep of his foot and trying to ignore Mikey’s stare.

“I’ll see you next week,” Mikey said finally and Patrick glanced up and forced himself to smile.

“Yeah, probably, right?” He laughed nervously and gave a small wave as Mikey left.

“Fuck,” he hissed after the door had closed, dropping his head into this arms as he bent over the counter. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“You want to,” Joe’s voice sounded from beside him. “That’s kind of the problem.”

“Pete,” Patrick groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. They were the only two employees in the store on a Wednesday night, a typically slow day. “He’s in high school. Can you please not talk about him like that?”

Pete just grinned back, and cocked his head to the side. “It’s just talking. Nothing wrong with talking. I’m not actually going to mess with Ryan.” His grin turned to a smirk. “Probably.”

“Pete!” Patrick sighed. “I’m his boss. I feel a paternal sense of obligation to him. Please don’t mess with Ryan,” he pleaded. “At least wait until next spring when he turns eighteen, okay?”

“Seventeen is the age of consent,” Pete teased, his grin growing wider.

Patrick shot him an icy stare before a customer approached the counter with a record tucked under his arm. He had a mess of unkempt, black hair and was wearing huge sunglasses even though they were inside. The guy set the record on the counter as Pete moved into position to ring up the order.

“Appetite For Destruction? Sweet,” Pete nodded to the record. The guy just grunted in return and Pete, of course, felt the need to keep talking. “You should pick up Use Your Illusion 1 and 2 while you’re at it,” he suggested and the guy looked up and said nothing. “Oookay,” Pete mumbled at the lack of response and totaled the purchase.

The guy handed him a card and Pete ran it, the three of them standing around awkwardly as they waited for the machine to approve the purchase, listening to the modem dial-up and connect. The customer was staring at Patrick from behind his glasses and Patrick felt like he was in trouble for something, but he didn’t know why.

“You own this place?” the guys asked at last.

“Yeah, I’m Patrick,” he replied, offering a small smile and his hand.

The guy stared down at Patrick’s hand and instead picked up a pen off the counter to sign his receipt. “Yeah,” is all he replied as he scrawled out his signature.

“Dude,” Pete said, sounding affronted. “Is something wrong?” He stared at the customer, his eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,” the guy said again before dropping the pen on the counter. “You’re an asshole. Judging me for buying a Guns ‘n Roses album? Nice.” He wrestled the bag away Pete, who was gawking back.

“I didn’t—“ Pete started and Patrick stepped up and put his hand on Pete’s shoulder.

“He wasn’t being rude,” Patrick assured the man. “He honestly likes Use Your Illusion. We all do. It’s epic.”

The customer stood there another minute, looking at the two of them, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Whatever,” he grumbled and pushed out the door.

“What the fuck?” Pete asked as the door swung closed. “What the fucking fuck was that about?” He picked up the receipt and squinted down at the writing below the signature line. “Gerard Way?” he read, pronouncing the name with disbelief. “Okay, _Gerard Way_ ,” he continued as his tone became mocking. “You? Are the Asshole of the Month.”

Pete stomped to the back office as Patrick lifted his hat off his head, sighing as he ran a hand through his hair. “With my luck, he’s head of the Better Business Bureau or something,” Patrick called out in a resigned voice.

“Fuck him,” Pete sneered as he returned with blank sheet of paper and a sharpie marker. He slapped the paper down next to the receipt, looking over the name again as he sloppily stenciled the letters onto the paper. He underlined his name and printed “AHotM” underneath it before taping it up to the wall behind the counter.

***

Pete spent the rest of the week bitching about Gerard Way to the staff, retelling the story with more embellishment each time. “Get this,” he says to Andy. “The fucker got up in my face and was all ‘You’re an asshole,’ with his fist clenched and shit.”

“Dude,” Andy responded, sounding more amused than concerned.

Patrick had all but forgotten about the incident until Saturday, when Mikey came in and noticed the sign almost immediately. “Hey, how come my brother’s name is taped to the wall?” he wondered and Patrick turned around to follow the line of Mikey’s eyes before whirling back around.

“Gerard Way is your brother?” he asked, alarm creeping into his voice.

“Yeah,” Mikey replied happily. “Did he do something to get his name up?”

“Yes,” Pete replied on Patrick’s behalf and Patrick’s stomach twisted in fear of what Pete would say. “Yes, he won the monthly drawing for a free record.” Patrick exhaled, relieved by Pete’s preternatural ability to bullshit people.

“Oh! Sweet!” Mikey grinned. “I didn’t know you had that.”

“It’s new,” Patrick said quickly, totaling Mikey’s purchase.

Mikey squinted at the sign and silently mouthed the initials AHotM. “What’s that stand for at the bottom?”

“Uh… Album Haul of the Month,” Pete supplied, eyes darting to Patrick and then back to Mikey. Patrick nodded, chewing his lower lip as he watched Mikey’s expression.

“Cool!” Mikey answered, smiling. “Huh. He told me he was planning on stopping by sometime after I gave him his gift. I told him all about this place.”

“Oh? Did he like it?” Patrick inquired. “The, uh, present, I mean.”

“Seemed to,” Mikey said with a nod, smiling back at Patrick. “Can I put my name in for the next drawing?”

“Dude, there’s a girl standing by the Metallica albums,” Joe hissed to Patrick one night.

Patrick glanced over at the girl in question. She was cute, brunette with curly hair, probably a college student. Patrick turned back and nodded slowly, his eyes focused on Joe. “Maybe she needs assistance,” he whispered conspiratorially. “You know who could help her? Someone who works here. Like you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joe replied quietly, mirroring Patrick’s slow nod. “She’s probably looking for something for her boyfriend.”

“Maybe,” Patrick answered. “Or maybe she’s looking at The Meteors. Or maybe? Maybe she likes Metallica. Stranger things have happened.”

Joe narrowed his eyes at Patrick and headed over to her, shooting a long look at Patrick over his shoulder as he went.

“Can I help you with something?” he asked the girl in a wary voice.

“Yeah,” she said with a frown as she flipped through the Metallica albums. “I’m looking for the ‘Creeping Death’ picture disc. I know it’s a long shot, but do you have it?”

“Yeah, I have it,” Joe replied quickly, a big smile overtaking his face.

“Oh, is it behind the counter?” the girl asked, face hopeful. “I didn’t see it in here,” she added, gesturing at the records grouped behind the sign reading “Metallica.”

“What?” Joe furrowed his brow in confusion. “Oh, no. I mean _I_ have it. Me. Not the store. Well, the store had it but then I bought it so, yeah. Uh, are you trying to buy it for your boyfriend?”

The girl giggled and shook her head, her curls brushing her cheeks. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Joe asked slowly, his eyebrows inching upward.

“No, no girlfriend either, sorry,” she laughed.

“Hmm.” Joe turned his head slightly to the side but kept his eyes on the customer. “Marry me and we’ll both own my copy,” he offered. “Marital property.”

Patrick kept his eyes focused on the stack of records he was straightening nearby as he interrupted. “Maybe you should take her on a date first before you marry her, Joe. Tell her your name and all that?”

“Oh, right.” Joe beamed and the girl returned the smile. “I’m Joe. We should have coffee. And then get married.”

“Natalie,” she replied, shaking his hand. “And I’d love to.”

Patrick smiled to himself as he headed to the back of the store.

***

Patrick and Pete were already at the store, chatting over the counter when Joe breezed in the next morning. “I’m engaged,” he announced.

“Congratulations,” Patrick chuckled as Pete slapped him on the back. Joe filled them in on Natalie’s history as “an awesome chick” with “kickass taste in music.” Joe was going to teach her how to play guitar.

“So coffee was a hit?” Patrick inquired, taking a sip of his own beverage.

“Oh, man!” Joe said with a start. “I almost forgot! We got waited on by some emo dude who worked there, all black hair and scowly face? His name tag said ‘Gerard,’ so yeah. Either Mikey’s brother works at Java Joe’s or everyone named Gerard is goth.” Joe considered the statement for a minute before saying, “Huh, equally likely possibilities, I’d say.”

***

“No, Pete.” Patrick kept his attention on the ledger he was writing in.

“Yes, Patrick,” Pete insisted, sitting on the edge of the desk.

“What possible good will it do for us to stalk Mikey’s brother at his place of business?” Patrick set his pen down and looked at Pete.

“Fact-finding mission,” Pete replied. “We go and observe and see if we can learn anything useful.”

Patrick gave Pete a doubtful look. “Like _what_ exactly?” he questioned.

“I don’t know! Like I’ll pester him until I find out something about Mikey for you. He’ll be at work. He’ll have to be nice to me.” Pete gave Patrick a sweet smile and batted his eyelashes. “I’m good at getting stuff from people.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, even though he knew it was true. “Fine, whatever,” he grumbled. It was easier to give in to Pete and agree to go then fight him on it. Plus, if he didn’t agree, he had a suspicion Pete would go alone and do the same thing which would be much, much worse. At least this way he could keep his eye on things.

***

They went after work, Patrick lagging behind as Pete burst into the coffeehouse all smiles and swagger, his confidence radiating. He sauntered to the counter and practically sprawled over it, grinning up at an already perturbed Gerard. This time, Gerard didn’t have his sunglasses on and Patrick and Pete were treated to the full force of Gerard’s ability to kill people with looks.

“Gerard!” Pete exclaimed, pointing at his name tag. “Hey, I had a guy come into the record store I work at the other day and his name was Gerard! Except he had these big dorky sunglasses on and was a total prick to me and the owner!” Pete thumbed at Patrick who was wishing desperately to sink into the floor. “You couldn’t be the same guy cuz you’re not wearing sunglasses and you seem very pleasant. You’re pleasant, aren’t you, Gerard?”

“May I help you?” Gerard asked in a monotone voice, glaring at Pete and not even taking Patrick’s presence into account. That was the only upshot Patrick could see to this whole encounter.

“Can you help me… Can you help me…” Pete drummed his fingertips against the counter as he pressed his lips together in thought. “Yeah, I think you can Gerard. I’ll take a twenty-ounce triple shot iced vanilla latte and Patrick here will have a… what did you want?” Pete turned back to a mortified Patrick.

“Just a large coffee is fine,” Patrick managed.

“Right. A twenty-ounce triple shot iced vanilla latte and a twenty-ounce regular coffee,” Pete repeated. “And an apology for being an asshole the other day.”

Gerard said nothing as he busied himself making a drink and Patrick tried not to think too much about the possibility of Gerard calling Mikey to tell him about this encounter and the jerkoffs who work at the XYZ Records. Gerard handed Patrick his coffee first and Patrick mumbled a “thank you” before scrambling away to find a corner table as far away from Gerard as possible to sit at.

He could see Pete up at the counter, his mouth moving as he continued to engage Gerard, could make out facial twitches and pointed looks and Patrick decided that it would be better to just remove his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose until his burgeoning headache went away. Or until Pete was ready to go, whichever came first.

As it turned out, Patrick’s headache was still building when Pete popped up at the table and very casually announced they could leave.

Patrick pushed his glasses back on his face and glared at Pete. “Find out a lot of information?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Yep,” Pete crowed, taking a sip of his drink, and smiling at Patrick though a mouthful of whipped cream. “Found out lots of stuff.”

“Yeah?” Patrick questioned in disbelief, still angry. “Like what?”

Pete shrugged innocently and headed for the door. “Nothing that helps you out,” he admitted before shouldering through the exit.

***

The next few weeks went by without incident. Mikey didn’t say anything about the visit to Gerard when he came in, so Patrick held out hope that his chances hadn’t been ruined by allowing Pete Wentz to antagonize his brother. Pete also said nothing about the visit or Gerard from then on, and Patrick honestly didn’t want to know how badly the rest of their conversation had gone because he was pretty sure he was already developing an ulcer. Gerard didn’t come back to the store either.

Patrick would have felt relieved, but the twist that he felt in his stomach every time Mikey walked through his door was ever present and he could never be completely relieved with that kind of longing. Of course, Patrick’s weeks would have felt empty without it, without having Mikey’s visits to look forward to. All in all, things were okay.

It was an atypically busy Saturday. Well, every Saturday was busy, but this Saturday they seemed to get double the traffic they usually saw. Patrick had to call Ryan in two hours early and put off his paperwork for the day to help attend to customers.

They were so busy, they ordered lunch half an hour late and ate it in hurried half bites behind the front counter between bouts of waiting on customers. Pete and Joe worked the floor, Andy manned the register, and Ryan ran back and forth from the office, taking orders, checking inventory, and cutting more slips of paper up for people to enter the Album Haul of the Week.

(Patrick figured he had better keep up the façade that Gerard had won free merchandise, so he adopted the Album Haul of the Month idea. That name lasted two days before Pete talked him into making it a weekly drawing. The idea was to dump the losing names out of the fishbowl each week and start over from scratch. That way, anyone who wanted a chance at winning a free record had to come into XYZ Records at least once a week to enter the raffle. The plan worked remarkably well, as their current sales figures were bearing out.)

Patrick was returning from the back room with a special order tucked under his arm when he noticed Mikey, standing in the middle of the store looking confused. Patrick glanced at his watch and saw it was 2:40 already, having totally lost track of the time. “Shit,” he mumbled, dropping the records off at the counter and gesturing at Andy to point out which customer they were for.

“Hey,” Patrick called out as he made his way up behind Mikey.

Mikey turned around, his eyes wide. “Hey,” he said, surprised. “It’s pretty crazy in here.”

Patrick bit his lip to keep from frowning because being busy was supposed to be a good thing, even if it kept him from getting to help Mikey. “It is,” he agreed. “Sorry for making you wait. Uh, is there anything I can help you with? Did you want to put in an order for anything? A few albums came in I thought you might like: Flesh For Lulu, Soup Dragons, and Echo and the Bunnymen…” He looked up, trying to remember what all he had gotten.

“Oh, awesome!” Mikey replied, sounding pleased. “Yeah, I’d be interested in those. I’ll just look around for a while first, okay? You look like you’re needed elsewhere,” he added as a teenage boy approached. “Someone else can help me if I need it, I’m sure.” The corner of Mikey’s mouth quirked up in a slight smirk and Patrick’s heart dropped.

Of course someone else could help Mikey. It wasn’t like Patrick did anything more than Joe or Pete or Andy or even Ryan could do. He tried not to appear as crestfallen as he felt at this realization.

“Yeah, just let me know when you’re ready and I’ll grab those records for you,” he nodded, turning to help the kid figure out which Green Day album he wanted to buy. As soon as he had finished up with him, a woman came up with a question about Neil Diamond albums, followed by an interruption to help Andy replace the register tape, followed by an internet search for Bauhaus albums.

“Hey, I think I’m ready to check out now if you wanted to show me those albums?”

Patrick looked up from his computer screen to see Mikey standing there, leaning against the counter. “Oh, shit. Sorry. Yeah,” he said as he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to recover from the strain of looking at the screen for so long.

He turned to head back to the office to retrieve the records when Joe called out his name. “Patrick? This guy has a question about 1940s jazz forms?” He held his hands up helplessly. “I have no idea.”

“I can get the records,” Ryan chimed in as he hurried past from his last trip to the backroom. “The ones in your filing cabinet?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah. Those,” he nodded and turned to help Joe. “Sorry about this,” he said to Mikey.

Mikey just shrugged and studied the wall behind the register. “S’okay,” he replied nonchalantly.

Patrick’s stomach lurched as he went to answer the customer’s questions. He forced himself not to look back at Mikey or notice when he left the store.

“No, seriously guys. She’s like. She’s _amazing._ ” Joe closed his eyes as he said the word, as if believing it in all his earnestness. “It’s been… what? A month? She’s got this whole Steve Vai thing going on, I’m tellin' ya.”

“After a month?” Patrick deadpanned.

“Well, like I showed her how to do some finger tapping, like, two handed—“

“Dude, teach her the _chords_ before you mess around with that stuff,” Patrick laughed.

“No, no, I will. I mean, I am. I’m just saying. She’s awesome.”

“Yeah, I know she is, Joe,” Patrick said fondly, trying not to think about Mikey.

“You’re awfully quiet, Beavis,” Joe snorted, pushing Pete, who was staring off into the distance, on the shoulder.

“Mmm?” Pete answered, slowly turning his head to focus his eyes on Joe. “Oh, sorry. I was listening. Steve Vai, fingertapping. Yeah.”

Patrick furrowed his brow as he studied Pete. “Seriously, man. What’s up? You’re never this quiet.” And now that Patrick thought about it, Pete had seemed a bit distant for at least a week.

“Just thinking,” he replied dreamily and Joe and Patrick exchanged knowing glances.

“Did you score with Ross?” Joe asked, incredulous. “Wait. No. Don’t answer that. I don’t want to know if you did.”

“I _really_ don’t want to know if you did,” Patrick echoed.

Pete sighed heavily, and pushed himself up from where he was slumped over the counter. “No, I did not score with Ryan Ross,” he replied, sounding annoyed. “Geez, I don’t have anything to contribute to the conversation and you automatically think I’m getting laid?”

Patrick chuckled. “No, not getting laid. In love, or something.” Patrick looked up a second and then nodded. “And probably getting laid too, yeah.”

Pete stared down at the counter for a time while Patrick and Joe watched him expectantly. “I think I need caffeine,” Pete decided.

Patrick started to respond when the front door jingled open, pulling his attention away. Patrick watched as Mikey walked a couple steps into the store, stopping as soon as his eyes met Patrick’s. Patrick’s heart hiccupped in his chest as he tried to process what Mikey was doing there on a Sunday.

“Hey,” Patrick said as both Joe and Pete withdrew from the counter, busying themselves by checking over the fliers along the wall. “Weren’t you just in here yesterday? Did we mess something up or…?”

Mikey hesitated a second before continuing up to the counter. “No? Well, no. I guess I forgot to do something when I was in here yesterday.”  
Patrick frowned and tilted his head slightly to one side. “Yeah? Maybe that’s my fault since I was busy. Was it something I was supposed to order for you?” He wracked his brain trying to think of what it could be.

“Um.” Mikey pulled a square piece of paper from his back pocket and set it on the counter for Patrick to read. Scrawled in Pete’s hand, it read: “Ask him out already.”

Patrick’s eyes widened as he stared down at it, knowing what had happened. Ryan grabbed the records from the filing cabinet because Patrick had been busy. Ryan hadn’t checked for sticky notes and removed them. Patrick’s heart thumped heavy in his chest as he worked his jaw open and closed, trying to come up with a way to explain this.

“Evidently, _someone_ figured out that I like you and was trying to give me a little push,” Mikey continued, his eyes going over to Pete who had now stopped making any pretense of doing work and was heading back to the counter, staring down at the note in disbelief.

“Shit,” Pete said, his eyes running over his own words.

“ _Shit_ ,” Joe added, looking at the paper over Pete’s shoulder.

“Wait, what?” Patrick asked, confused. “You’re asking _me_ out? You? Are asking _me_?”

Mikey stared at Patrick, his face unreadable. “Well, no,” he answered. “I was about to ask you out but now you seem like you’re not really into the whole thing so—“

“No!” Patrick held his hands up and waved them, trying to erase the idea. “No, no, I am definitely down with that. It’s just... I didn’t…”

“I wrote the note telling Patrick to ask _you_ out,” Pete explained. “He’s kind of had a crush on you for like half a year or something.”

Joe tried to stifle his laugh as Patrick’s face went red. “Pete,” Patrick said feebly.

“Well, it’s true,” Pete sputtered, his voice going higher. “And Mikey’s had a thing for you too for nearly as long so it’s about time you guys get together. Damn!”

Patrick snapped his head to look in Pete’s direction. “What?” he questioned. “How do you know that?”

“Gerard told him,” Mikey answered, narrowing his eyes at Pete. Joe turned his attention between the three and giggled as he watched the exchange.

“Wait, you’ve known that since the coffeehouse and you didn’t tell me? Three weeks and you didn’t _tell_ me?” Patrick demanded, hitting Pete in the arm.

“Uh…” Pete began, looking down at the floor.

“Three weeks?” Mikey asked, dumfounded. “How long have you two been dating?”

“Uh…” Pete tried again.

“Dating?!” Patrick’s voice was edging on shrill now. “You and Gerard are _dating_?”

“For like. Three weeks, yeah,” Pete admitted sheepishly. “But he only told me Mikey was into you like a few days ago, so.” He gave a nervous look to Patrick whose jaw was clenched tightly.

“Holy shit!” Joe yelled, bouncing up and down in place.

“Pete,” Patrick warned. “Explain.”

“Uh, so you and I went to Java Joe’s and Gerard and I talked and maybe I might have asked him out or something and we got together and it went well so we’ve been doing that since and I kind of really like him. Yeah,” Pete said quickly. “Anyway,” he continued, “that’s not the point. The point was, Mikey’s gonna ask you out. Right?”

All eyes turned back to Mikey who blinked twice and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Well.”

“Would you like to go out with me?” Patrick blurted out before Mikey had a chance. “There’s a show at the Fleur Friday night. I carry the band’s albums here, so I can get us on the list. Maybe we can get dinner before hand? Or… something?” Patrick bit his lip, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

Mikey smiled warmly and nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that,” he agreed.

“Awesome,” Patrick beamed. He’d momentarily forgotten about the presence of Joe and Pete when Pete piped up.

“So you’re gonna trust us to close the store up that night since you’ll be out on your date?” Pete wondered, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile.

Patrick sighed looking between Pete and Joe. “Yeah. But Andy’s in charge,” he decided, ignoring Pete and Joe’s groans.


End file.
